


We'll Hang For That

by koldtblod



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Because we'll believe nothing positive about Mark Jefferson on this archive, Canon-Typical Violence, Deffo based this off the CREEPY vibes that Jefferson gives off when he's taking the photos of Max, Gen, I gave myself a headache writing this, I imagine it rubbed off on Nathan, Kinda, Mark Jefferson Is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koldtblod/pseuds/koldtblod
Summary: Nathan knows that Victoria's name is on Jefferson's list. She's supposed to be his best friend, but it's hard to say no to Jefferson. Or to himself.Set somewhere between the kidnapping of Kate Marsh and the end of the game. Pre-Max involvement.General warnings apply for this fic because, of course, it's Nathan, and centres around that whole messed up situation.
Kudos: 2





	We'll Hang For That

**Author's Note:**

> ' _To consume means to burn, to use up – and, therefore, to need to be replenished. As we make images and consume them, we need still more images; and still more. But images are not a treasure for which the world must be ransacked; they are precisely what is at hand wherever the eye falls. The possession of a camera can inspire something akin to lust. And like all credible forms of lust, it cannot be satisfied; first, because the possibilities of photography are infinite; and, second, because the project is finally self-devouring._ ' Susan Sontag. 1977. 'On Photography'. London: Penguin Books Ltd. The Image World, Page 179.  
>   
> Other inspirations: Valentine de Saint-Point's 1913 essay 'Futurist Manifesto of Lust', entire.  
>   
> Context: I spent several years of education focused solely on photography, and that’s what my degree is in. Sontag is photography royalty, and whilst I kinda think Nathan would be reading something far more pretentious, I know Sontag well and I feel a lot when I read On Photography especially.
> 
> The title is taken from the song by Swans of the same name, because I’m _that girl_.  
>   
> 

Nathan’s cheeks feel warm. His eyes are unfocused even as he tries to take in the words on the page before him. It's been an uncomfortably humid day for September, but that's only the half of it. 

The time is ticking away.

Three hours have passed since Nathan last had anything to take the edge off and usually, he'd be alright. Today, however, tonight, he's feeling the need to medicate again just to get through. The letters on the page are blurring into one and all Nathan can make out, all he can see, is the number in the top right-hand side: 

Page 179.

Nathan presses his hands more tightly around his head and forces himself to concentrate.

_ To consume means to burn, to use up  _ – _ and, therefore, to need to be replenished. _

Patience, he’d been told, but really how long must he wait?

The lamp behind him flickers. One of the other boys shouts from down the hall and Nathan slams his fist against the table. The gun is hidden beneath the mattress. Nathan could reach for it if he really wanted; press the barrel in between his eyes or else march out into the corridor with it. Sure, he'd definitely be running some risks, but he thinks his fellow classmates would expect it.

The essay is a killer. Nathan is caught somewhere between trepidation and the need for release – but whether physically or emotionally isn't quite clear. Nathan wants to feel more and less all at the same time. He’s tempted to put the gun into his mouth and press his tongue against the metal; to pull the trigger with one less bullet in the chamber just for a bit of excitement.

Twitch, they used to call him.

He’s twitching right now.

Sontag, Nathan thinks, had it all right but he’s finding it difficult to put into his own words. Schoolwork seems unimportant, especially at this point. Especially now. He’s got a lot hanging over him and his head is pounding; Nathan half expects a nose bleed. He keeps telling everyone that a storm is coming but they look at the sunshine, feel it on their skin, and scoff.

They say it’s just him. One day they’ll learn. 

Nathan’s fingernails claw into the wood of his desk and more splitters come away under the assault. Stupid town. Stupid fucking essay.

He wants to throw the dorm room door open and scream.

Tantrum.

Fight with anyone who comes into his path until he gets his way.

He needs time to think and to plan but instead, he’s sat at his desk. Nathan has no choice, because it’s Jefferson’s essay and he has to do well in that, at least. If he doesn’t, Jefferson will lose faith. He’ll feign calm dismay in front of the class and afterwards, he'll corner Nathan in the room, fist curled in his jacket and hiss,

“How can I trust you, if you can’t even do this!”

Nathan can’t disappoint him again. He’s breathing heavily. He’s read Louis Daguerre (translated, of course) and Roland Barthes. Araki. Bataille. Sigmund  _ and  _ Anna Freud. Nathan has read everything that Jefferson has ever slapped in front of him, even more obsessively than Victoria. But he isn’t a fangirl. He’s so much more. 

Nothing, he thinks, will  _ ever  _ compare to Jefferson’s published works, nor the act of photography itself. But to use Jefferson’s essays in order to write his own seems a little foolish, even if the entire thing is bullshit. 

Sontag is surely the safest option.

_ The possibilities of photography are infinite. _

Nathan has read a lot of books, at least. He owns a lot of movies, too. Victoria sits sometimes in his room and watches them when invited, in the dark beneath the projector. Very few are in English. Nathan has taken great care in collecting only the very best, the most obscure, of movies and it’s unfortunate that Victoria can’t seem to appreciate them in the way that he does.

“Nathan,” she’ll say, “this is weird.”

“Nathan, this is fucked.”

“This is – Nate, come on – have you taken your medication?”

Mental illness might have a lot of answer for, thinks Nathan, but not for his taste in arthouse cinema. Not necessarily.

“Why do you like it?” Victoria had asked him once. “Why’d you care? You can't apply genre to straight-up torture, Nathan. And liking these things won’t make you edgy. It won’t make you into Jefferson.”

Nathan had punched a hole in the wall that day.

Really, he’d been insulted.

And Victoria had later apologised, but Nathan still sulked. He’d gone off to find a dealer, and the teacher, in that order and paced back and forth in anger for half an hour while he ranted and Jefferson watched, unfazed, straight-backed.

“Now, Nathan,” he’d said eventually, and Nathan had upturned the table in protest while Jefferson continued in the same calm, cool voice, “you know this isn’t good for you. Acceptance is key, after all; some of us aren’t supposed to understand these refined types of media. Miss Chase included, I’m sure you know, is much too – shall we say, mainstream? She’ll never understand the way I do, Nathan. Nor the way you do.”

Fuck Victoria, was Nathan’s next thought.

In the moment, the insult was scathing and welcome. That’s when Jefferson suggested it:

“I want her after Kate Marsh.”

And Nathan had said, “That’s fine.”

In the morning, the reality of what he’d agreed to had settled like a stone, like guilt, in the pit of Nathan’s stomach. Victoria had always been so convinced that Jefferson liked her.

Victoria had also been Nathan’s best friend for as long as he could remember.

Unfortunately, whether or not Nathan decided to go ahead would always be down to one man, and one man only. Jefferson’s word was final. Nathan still wants the photographer, more than anyone else, to see the value in him – in his work, in his words, in his actions. Even his taste in cinema.

Nathan wants to be the perfect protégé.

Agreeing that Victoria be the next in line is just all part of the package, regardless of if it hurts or if he feels like he’s betrayed her.

Page 179.

The text swims again before Nathan’s eyes, and he presses his fingers hard against his lids until black and white dots are all he can see. He’s tired and feverish. Nathan should have gone to sleep some hours ago, to make up for the fact he hadn’t slept for the past three nights – not properly, at least.

Kate had come and gone. Victoria’s fifteen minutes of fame is creeping closer. And she hasn’t a clue.

Rachel, of course, was always a mistake. 

She was simply an outlier that Jefferson is adamant they won’t have repeated. She was never supposed to be conscious enough to lift her head from the floor and look around the darkroom, much less to squint at the polished shoes coming towards her; to hear the click of the camera. Rachel was never supposed to receive too small a dose the first time, and then too large a dose the second, nor to mumble,

“Mark?”

before passing out again.

It was  _ his _ mistake, thinks Nathan, and not Jefferson’s that led Rachel to the hole in the ground. Victoria had always hated the girl, no matter how she fronted, with her blue feather earring and her flannel shirt.

With vomit on her collar.

And blood.

And sweat.

The stench of dirt and death on Nathan’s hands.

Jefferson had knocked Nathan unconscious that very same night, with the shovel they used to dig her grave, instead of drugs. Nathan deserved it. He’d come back around soon enough, although Rachel had not.

_ But images are not a treasure for which the world must be ransacked. _

Nathan has to keep repeating that in his head.

Jefferson knows what he’s doing. Victoria’s face won’t join Rachel’s on the posters, much in the same way that Kate, and Kelly, and Lynn, and Suzie, and the other numerous girls who had come before had all been fine; not been buried, six feet under, in the junkyard, but set back about their daily lives, none the wiser with minimal injuries at worst.

Jefferson is acting, just like in the movies. 

Nathan might be sick if he sees Kate Marsh crying one more time because boohoo she just doesn’t remember.

Kate is traumatised. And so what. That has less to do with the photographs Jefferson had taken and more the video that Victoria had circulated. Really, it’s all just a game. Kate’s fault she can’t handle the pressure. She should be glad she doesn’t remember a fucking thing, because she’s still alive – not like Rachel Amber, rotting cold in the earth.

Nathan was the one to fuck up.

He wouldn’t do that with Victoria.

Victoria  _ would _ look beautiful against the white studio backdrop, wrists bound with duct tape and perfectly plump lips pouted and trembling; Nathan knows this for sure. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasised about it once or twice before and even now, something’s unfurling in Nathan’s belly.

He’s shivering, but still the sweat beads on the back of his neck. Nathan feels the weight pressing in on the air around him in the room.

He stares at the book.

_ Like all credible forms of lust, it cannot be satisfied. _

“Would you do that, Nathan,” Jefferson had asked him once, as if testing his loyalty, “to your own best friend?”

“I would,” said Nathan.

He’d drug her. He’d bring her. Victoria would be quiet and still and if she wasn’t, said Nathan, he’d strike her hard around the back of the head until she lolled back complacently against the floor, knees splayed, wrists bound, murmuring incoherently.

None of it mattered.

Victoria can’t validate Nathan in the way that he needs, even if she is – what? – charming? To him at least.

Nathan groans and pushes his face into the pages. His hand reaches below the table, going for his belt.

It’s hot, but he isn’t hard. Not yet.

It's not enough.

There are rumours about the two of them together of course; as to whether they're friends or fuck buddies or even in a relationship. Nathan, in truth, has never wanted to sleep with Victoria. Likewise, she's confessed to feeling the same about him.

There's something different, however, in photographing her. She’s the classic type of beauty that would suit Jefferson’s photography and Jefferson knows. He has to be pleased with Nathan for agreeing.

There’s nothing wrong with making amends. Nathan has tried twice as hard since the incident with Rachel to make things better – like with Kate. On the night she was drugged, the photographer had clicked his tongue as he surveyed Nathan’s handiwork and said appreciatively,

“Perfect, Nathan, exactly. You’ve done it right for once.”

The heat had seared through Nathan. On the same night, he’d jerked himself raw as he replayed the audio over and over in his head:

“You’ve done so well, Nathan, I’m so proud.”

Nathan’s hand finds its way into his boxers, closing around himself and squeezing. He’s so fucking scared, but all the same... How much longer? He wants to hear Jefferson’s whispered praises again, more so while he looks down at Victoria, his best friend, immobile on the floor, and it’s this combination that encourages his cock to swell.

_ Perfect, Nathan, this is fucked. _

Then, the door to his dorm room swings open, and Nathan snatches his hand back out of his pants, whirling around.

“Vic!” he gasps.

“About this essay–” she begins, and then, “Shit, are you okay?”

Nathan can feel the sweat that’s gathered on his upper lip. He knows he’s red in the face, skittish **** and shaking, and suspects Victoria can tell he’s on the verge of another breakdown, even in the low light. He’s hunched over the desk. He’s hard against his thigh.

Victoria steps forward, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

Nathan wants her wrists in rope or duct tape. Patience means nothing when he’s dangling on the edge. He jerks away as if stung by her touch, but Victoria follows. 

“Nate, you’re burning up,” she says.

“Y–yeah,” he agrees.

He calms himself down.

Victoria’s gaze falls to the book on the table, to the wall of text. Page 179. Then to Nathan’s lap. If she notices, Victoria doesn’t say anything nor does her face reflect any change. Slowly, she lets her hand drop from Nathan’s head.

“Are you okay?” she asks again.

Nathan hasn’t been alright since he was about seven years old, and this Victoria knows, but it’s neither here nor there. If he tells her, or even alludes to the fact, that what Nathan needs right now is for Victoria to be bound like the girls in his art films, preferably in the darkroom with the camera clicking, Nathan knows she’d run for miles.

She’d say, again, “Have you taken your medication?”

And Nathan needs her to stay, for the plan to work.

He gets to thinking he  _ could _ do it himself, without Jefferson’s presence. Nathan could dose Victoria right here and now and do it alone and Jefferson would be so happy with him – of the authenticity, of the raw that will shine in the images – that he’ll forget to be angry at all. Nathan could take Victoria out to the barn and leaves the images for Jefferson to find in the folder. He wouldn’t lecture Nathan about timing and patience if everything was perfect. 

If the dosage was right.

No more disappointment. Jefferson was the one who always said to take the shot, after all.

Nathan's eyes slide back to the book on the desk. 

_ We need still more images; and still more. _

Victoria has foregone the sweater for once today and wears a short-sleeved button-up blouse, cream in colour, with the pearls still tightly fastened around her neck. Pearls to match, thinks Nathan, around her wrists would be very fitting. Very Victoria. He'd buy her a set too, perhaps, if everything went to plan.

And if everything went to shit... Well, there was always the gun. Nathan is sure his father would love to have the reputation of the school besmirched by the bodies of his dead son and overdosed best friend being found up in Nathan's own dorm room.

Wouldn't that be something.

No, thinks Nathan, as the desire to stick the barrel back between his teeth rises again. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably. There's sweat trickling over his temple.

"Nathan," says Victoria, "you're freaking me out, say something!"

"Fine," he says, through gritted teeth. "'M fine, Vic."

Shame washes over him. The arousal, along with any feeling even remotely similar, is gone in an instant. He wishes Victoria would stop looking at him with such absurd concern on her face. Nathan has to move; can't take the pity for much longer. He reaches out. He takes Victoria's hand and presses it against his cheek and holds it there, with hopes of quieting the voice in his head.

He wants to tell her.

To warn her, even, about Jefferson’s plan.  _ His  _ plan. But he can’t. Blood has started to trickle from Nathan’s nose, over his lip and into his mouth. God, fuck, it couldn’t be simple! Acting on impulse was easy to do but drawing out the inevitable was harder – with all these thoughts?

Nathan doesn’t want them.

There’s no place for doubt, but if only he thinks Victoria could know, then she’d consent. She wouldn’t get hurt.

It wouldn’t be realistic.

The purpose was never to capture a subject who’d willingly offered. There wouldn’t be fear, there wouldn’t be corruption. There’d be no innocence to lose if Victoria knew what was happening. It defeated the point. 

Sontag had spoken about that as well. Not on page 179, but somewhere.

_ Somewhere. _

Pages 14 and 15, in fact.

Nathan wipes the blood on the back of his hand, and Victoria presses closer. She brings her free hand up to rake through Nathan's hair and he leans against her chest. She smells like Chanel No.5 and cigarettes.

"The essay is rough, huh?" she hums, after a moment. 

Nathan snorts into Victoria's palm.

"Going in circles," he mumbles. "Reading this book for – fuck – hours. Too much noise –"

He touches a finger to his temple.

"Here."

Victoria pulls away, just a little, to look again. She reaches into her skirt pocket and brings out a tissue – no, a handkerchief, embroidered with her initials V.M.C. – and presses it to Nathan’s nose. Her lips narrow into a thin line.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asks. "Even just for a while. We don't have to talk or – or I can read your essay? I mean, I wanted to talk about mine –"

"Watch a movie," says Nathan thickly. The handkerchief is turning crimson. "Please."

"Okay." Victoria nods. “But clean up first?”

Nathan almost collapses. His legs feel numb and rubbery when he stands and he staggers past Victoria over to the door and out into the hallway. He pictures her gazing around the room in his absence, thrumming through pages of art theory and frowning at his notes. Nathan hopes Victoria doesn’t think to look beneath the mattress.

But she has no reason to.

Cold water splashes into his face and Nathan gasps, as if he hasn’t been breathing all evening.

_ The possibilities of photography are infinite. _

But he doesn’t want to do this.

He wants Victoria to be safe, and happy.  _ He _ wants to be happy, but it doesn’t seem like there’s a choice. In the last few months, the closest Nathan has got is when he’s been off his face on his drugs – his medication, the dope, the speed, the tabs of acid, all at once. And it’s enough to kill him.

Nathan looks up at his reflection. He thinks, wretchedly, that he really wouldn’t mind if it did. There are broken shards of glass in this particular sink, where the mirror has been smashed in the corner. How tempting to squeeze a piece between his fingers and palm until he bleeds and then slit his own fucking throat with it.

Another tale for his father to spin.

He’d said once, about Nathan, to the therapist after their session,

“I’ve given that boy everything, yet he continues to disappoint – to make a fool out me!”

Nathan isn't even sure that he’s allowed to die.

His therapist had said,

“Mr Prescott, he just needs time.”

And there it was again.

Patience, Nathan, patience. Maybe Jefferson was right about that, too, like everything else. It’s all Nathan has, to still be taken under his wing and cared for; guided towards the gilded centre of the art world.

He can’t let Jefferson down.

_ The project is finally self-devouring. _

Hardly bearing to look at himself for any longer, Nathan turns away. When he comes back to his room, Victoria thankfully hasn’t started snooping. She’s sitting in the middle of his bed, cross-legged, shoes off, with Nathan’s laptop open in front of her. Nathan’s sure she won’t have picked anything from his personal collection and, sure enough, when he throws himself next to her, he sees Netflix prepped and ready to go.

“What are we watching?”

“I was thinking,” says Victoria, “to keep us in the mindset – how about Blue Velvet?”

Nathan shrugs. He doesn’t care. He knows Victoria thinks because it’s arty and aesthetic it’ll keep them focused, still somewhere in the back of their minds, on the essay but Nathan pictures the severed ear and it’s hard to feel any differently to the way he has all night.

Victoria takes his silence as a yes.

She loads the movie. She shuffles so she’s resting her back against the wall and prods Nathan lightly with her socked foot.

“D’you wanna cuddle?”

Nathan hesitates before sliding up beside her. Victoria pulls his arm so it's draped around her shoulders and leans into him. She’ll be asleep before the movie ends. 

Nathan has to say it, while they’re both conscious.

"You won't be like Rachel."

And he means it.

Victoria hums, as if she hasn’t really registered what Nathan’s told her, but then it sinks in. She stiffens slightly and looks up.

“What?”

“I won’t let you go missing," says Nathan.

Victoria frowns. Nathan’s not an idiot – of course he’s never told her what happened to Rachel Amber.

“Okay,” she says cautiously. “What a strange thing to say.”

"You’ll be here, right,” says Nathan, “always, no matter what happens?”

“You know I will,” Victoria tells him, and squeezes his hand just for a moment.

Nathan dares himself to believe.

He’ll do what Jefferson asks because Victoria will never leave. He'll buy his time, wait for October. The essay can wait until morning. Nathan likely won't sleep much better tonight either, but he buries his nose in the crown of Victoria's head – as if she's the one who needs comforting – and inhales another breath of her perfume.

His watch ticks. Victoria holds fast.

**Author's Note:**

> Nathan's playlist is [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Ti3t7ilACbfkThhwL2Sct?si=jbNfiLnbTH-a0L2Bwa-0Xg) (If you're yet to encounter my writing, there's usually always a fic soundtrack.)  
>   
> I imagine Jefferson said some absolutely horrific, abhorrent things to Nathan as well during their time together, if his interactions with Max are anything to go by, but I didn't want to get into too much of that. I can't imagine he _would_ be pleased if Nathan took the role of photographer on himself again either, but Nathan's kinda got this... facade of bravado about him, which leads me to think that despite the fuck up with Rachel, he'd still have _something_ that told him to try again.  
>   
> I never know whether I like Nathan. I mean, I don't, because I can't overlook drugging and kidnapping girls, no matter the motive and regardless of manipulation. But I _do_ love a character who I can unravel and I think there's so much to Nathan that we don't get to see in-game, whilst there are plenty of clues, because his is not our story. For me, I think Nathan is a prime example of what can happen if you combine questionable mental health with obvious childhood trauma and little to no care from the people who should support you. He's used, instead, because his temperament is volatile as a result and his judgement is clouded. I hesitate to use the word 'pity', because really that isn't it. I will never like Nathan, I would struggle to be friends with him, but there are parts that resonate with me deeply. I want neither to paint him in good light nor tarnish him completely.  
>   
> I was watching a [YT analysis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbD-CH9SWf8) of LiS where the guy said Nathan was angry and violent but that he needed help. And in a nutshell, I think that's it. I don't think we should excuse him, or his actions, but be starkly aware of what might have acted as a catalyst. Again, that isn't focused on in this fic (not explicitly), but I think it's important.  
>   
> Side note, originally I had far more in about Nathan's weird dark-web-esque art films, but in the end _I_ was the voice of Victoria, saying, Nathan what the fuck are we watching?


End file.
